


In Miniature

by LadyMalchav



Category: Supernatural
Genre: AU, Angst, Artist Castiel (Supernatural), Castiel (Supernatural) Whump, Castiel and Dean Winchester Falling in Love, Castiel and Dean Winchester First Meet, Crying, Crying Castiel (Supernatural), Destiel - Freeform, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Falling In Love, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Gift Giving, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Meet-Cute, Pre-Slash, Sam Winchester Ships Castiel/Dean Winchester, Shipper Sam Winchester, Uncle Dean Winchester, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-10
Updated: 2019-03-23
Packaged: 2019-07-10 15:53:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,295
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15952601
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyMalchav/pseuds/LadyMalchav
Summary: Dean stood in front of the green painted door.  He checked the address yet again and sighed, rubbing the back of his neck with the hand not holding the slip of paper.





	1. Chapter 1

Dean stood in front of the green painted door. He checked the address yet again and sighed, rubbing the back of his neck with the hand not holding the slip of paper. 

When Jess had told him his niece was getting a dollhouse for her birthday and needed some furniture he had thought it would be an easy task not the arduous task that had already taken up most of his one day off. The toy store offerings he had seen so far were either gaudy, chintzy, cheap-o, or downright ugly. Dean didn't think of himself as a picky guy, but it was a gift for his niece, who he loved more than life itself, so it had to be perfect. The cashier at the last chain store he had left in a huff had taken some pity on him, and scribbled down this address for him to find, promising him he'd get what he wanted there.

A small metal plaque affixed to the stone wall next to the door reading 'Miniatures' was all there was to indicate there was any business there at all. If you weren't looking you'd never find it. In fact, Dean was sure he passed by this very door every day on his way to work and had never even stopped to wonder what was inside. Sighing again, Dean opened the door and stepped in to the shadowy entrance way.

The shop both looked exactly like Dean had expected and like nothing he had ever seen before. Directly inside the door boxes of all sizes were stacked almost floor to ceiling with only one space in the middle marking an entrance to the shop beyond. Some boxes were refrigerator-sized, and some so small he wondered what could fit inside at all. The only piece of furniture to be seen was a coat rack with a long, tan jacket hanging on one of the hooks.

"Hello?" Dean called when no one met him at the chime of the door.

"Straight back," a voice answered.

Dean started walking through the piles of boxes. As he got further back he realized the shop was a lot bigger than it looked, and extended back quite a ways. Paths lead off into the boxes like a hedge maze, but he kept going straight until he hit a clearing where someone sat at a desk. The man at the desk had his back to Dean, so he had a moment to take in what he saw.

The lighting was much better back here thanks to a few lamps and a bank of windows high on the back wall which shed light on the small work desk littered with what Dean assumed were the tools of the trade. The man was hunched over something at the desk, shirtsleeves rolled up, and his shoulders rounded. His hair was suck up at odd angles, like he had just rolled out of bed, except where it was flattened by an elastic band running around his head.

Without turning around the man motioned around him with a paintbrush he was holding in his hand, "Feel free to look around, I just have to finish this real quick."

Dean nodded, then felt foolish cause the guy couldn't even see him, and for the first time noticed the rest of the room.   
Dollhouses crowded against the walls, layered three or four deep, and every wall was covered from about three feet high to the ceiling with little boxes. Inside each box was a diorama of a room. Bedrooms, kitchens, living rooms, even bathrooms. Some were outdoor scenes, with tiny trees and grass. One box depicted the very room he was standing in, replete with boxes, windows, a tiny little work desk, and chair. Dean had the sudden feeling he had stepped in to an episode of the Twilight Zone.

Dean turned to leave, but was confronted by what had to be the biggest, bluest eyes he had ever seen. Probably because they were magnified several times. At some point during his perusal of the tiny rooms, the man had gotten up out of the chair and stood behind Dean. He was wearing an apparatus on his face made of magnifying glasses layered in such a way that it made him look like some giant insect. Already off-put, Dean was about to bolt when the man took off the goggles and smiled. Something about the smile made Dean stay.

"Hello," said the man, extending his hand "my name is Castiel. Sorry about the wait."

The man, Castiel's, voice had made Dean picture a much older man, but the face in front of him couldn't be much older than himself. He was also surprised to notice that they were about the same height. Having been sucked into the tiny worlds on the wall for who knows how long Dean had come to expect their maker to be miniature, too. Even with the lenses out of the way, Dean noticed, his eyes really were that blue.

Dean realized he was staring. He coughed to cover his embarrassment.

"Hi, I'm Dean," he said at last, taking the man's hand and shaking it. Castiel, unperturbed by Dean's lack of decorum, shook his hand warmly.

"How may I help you?" Castiel asked. Far from the customer service voice Dean expected, he actually sounded like he wanted to help.

"I need some dollhouse furniture for a very special little girl," Dean replied.

"Ah, you've come to the right place! Tell me about her."

Dean paused, thrown off by the question.

"Umm, she's eight years old, blonde hair, hazel eyes-" he began

"No," Castiel cut him off, "don't describe her to me, tell me about her"

Again, Dean was thrown off, and said the very first thing that came to his mind.

"When she was a toddler she hated clothes. We couldn't keep anything on her. One day she got out of the apartment and knocked on the neighbour's door in nothing but a diaper and some pink fuzzy slippers." Dean was sure he was going to be called crazy, but instead Castiel laughed, his nose scrunching up as he smiled. 

"Perfect!" he exclaimed "Tell me more."

In a daze, Dean was led to a second chair he had overlooked earlier, had a cup of hot tea shoved in to his hands, and he talked.

-

"So I ask her 'Have you ever had parsnips?' And she goes 'No. That's just how I think they'd taste!' Dean laughed, shaking his head at the memory.

Castiel had gone back to work at his desk as Dean spoke, but now he pushed back his chair and stretched.

"I'm afraid it's time for me to go home now," Castiel said with a sigh, popping the quiet bubble of comraderie the two had built.

Dean looked at his watch "Oh wow, it's been over an hour! Sorry to take up so much of your time!"

"I don't mind," Castiel replied, "Your daughter seems like quite the personality. You and your wife must be quite proud."

"Mary's my niece, actually," said Dean, not sure why he felt the need to clarify, then added "No wife, either."

"I see," said Cas, nonchalantly.

They walked back through the boxes to the front of the store where Castiel put on his coat. Something was making Dean linger, though he couldn't quite put a finger on what. To be honest, this stranger had made him feel more welcome here in this odd little shop than he had felt almost anywhere before, and Dean was loathe to leave that behind.

As if sensing his hesitation, Castiel turned to Dean and, taking his hand again, said "Come back tomorrow, tell me more."

Dean saw no reason not to.


	2. Chapter 2

Even though Castiel didn't get any of his pop culture references, and Dean, in turn, couldn't tell a nipper from a cutter, they fell in to an easy friendship. Dean would come by on his way home from work and watch Castiel fiddle with his little bits and bobs and varnish and epoxy until suddenly there was a tiny bucket or rubber boots sitting on the workbench. It amazed him every time. He would rant and rave with whatever miniature creation his friend had wrought sitting in the palm of his hand. Castiel would blush and smile a small, shy smile. Sometimes Dean thought he was embarrassing his friend, but it never made him feel bad enough to stop.

The first time Dean made Castiel laugh with one of his jokes, he felt a swell of pride disproportionate to the achievement. But seeing Castiel throw his head back and laugh, scrunching up his nose, his smile showing gums... well it made Dean want to do it again, and again, and to be the only one to ever elicit that response from his friend.

Castiel didn't work on one thing until it was finished, instead doing a little bit of whatever caught his fancy at that particular time. So it took a few days for Dean to find which was his favorite thing Castiel made. 

Castiel had taken a pocket watch, scooped out all the watch parts, and replaced them with teeny shelves and tiny fake foods you might find in a pantry. The first one he saw had jars of honey, sugar, and spices, as well as mortar and pestles along the bottom row.

"It's beautiful," Dean breathed, spinning the watch back and forth so glass and metal caught the light.

"They don't sell well," replied Castiel, "Too much work is put in to sell them at a price people will pay."

Taking the item back from Dean, he opened a drawer in the work desk and placed the watch alongside dozens of similar pieces.

"Then why do you make them at all?" Dean asked.

"Because I like to," Castiel replied, as if it were obvious. 

\---

One day Dean entered the shop and headed to the back as usual, but Castiel was nowhere to be found. There were no exits except at the front and the alarmed emergency door at the back, no nooks or crannies, no bathroom or office either. Just the dozens of dollhouses and mountains of boxes.

“Cas!” Dean called. 

He thought he heard a thump coming from the boxes to the right of the hallway. 

“Cas?” he tried again.

Definitely a thump this time.

Then, slowly, as he watched, the entire side of the box mountain swung open and there stood Castiel, a little rumpled but no worse for wear.

“Oh, Dean. I thought you were someone else.” Cas stepped out of the boxes-that-were-actually-one-big-box, shut the door, and walked past Dean on the way to his workbench.

Dean was still staring dumbstruck at what now looked like a large pile of smaller boxes again.

“How… why…?”

“How? A simple matter of time, tape, and not a little architectural knowhow,” Castiel replied, “As for why. Well, not every customer is as welcome as you. Sit, let’s talk.”

Dean sat.

“What was that you called me?” Castiel asked

“What? Oh, ‘Cas’?” Dean answered sheepishly.

“Yes, that. No one calls me that. Why did you?”

“I dunno. I like the sound of it. It’s not as much of a mouthful as ‘Castiel’. Friends give friends nicknames. I’ll stop if you want…”

“No, don’t” says Cas, “I like it.”

Dean ducks his head to hide a soft smile.

\------

Thursday is the night Dean goes to dinner at Jess and Sammy’s place, so he doesn’t get to do more than poke his head in at Cas’ shop. Cas seems to be hard at work on something and doesn’t seem to be in the mood to talk anyway.

After dinner, the dozenth rewatch of Frozen that week, an uncle-niece tea party, one bed-time story and five just-one-mores; Dean and Sam meet at the kitchen table with a couple of beers.

“You’ve been scarce,” Sam begins good naturedly, “what’s suddenly taking up all your free time? Dollhouse furniture hunting can’t be that hard.”

Dean takes a swig of his beer and pouts. “No, I’ve got that sorted, although it’s gonna take till the night before the party Saturday. No, I just got a new friend, that’s all.”

Dean almost chokes on his beer when Sam asks “A sexy friend?” with a leer.

“No! Well, yes, But no,” Dean sputters, “Not that way. I don’t think so anyway. We just talk!”

“Talk about what?” Sam digs.

“About Mary at first. This is the guy making the furniture for me, and he’s really good!”

“This guy's got a name?”

“Yeah, some weird hippy dippy angel name. I looked it up after I met him. The angel of Thursday or something. I call him ‘Cas’.”

“You’ve only known this guy a few days and you’re nicknaming him?” Sam joked. “Must be serious!”

Instead of getting indignant, Dean just stared at his beer bottle, rolling it in his palm.

“Wait, really?!” Sam leaned forward in his chair, “You really like this guy? I thought you swore off dick after, well, Dick.”

This does rattle Dean a bit.

“He’s not just a dick, Sam! He’s an artist! And funny in his own weird way, an nice, an kind, an he makes me feel safe and good… I dunno…”

“Whoa, that’s deep, and honest for not even a whole beer yet. You gonna do something about it?”

“I don’t know, Sammy. What if he’s not interested? What if it ruins what we already got? I don’t think I can go back to not having this.”

Sam leaned further forward, clapping Dean on the shoulder

“Congrats,” he said, “sounds like you might just be falling in love.”

“Shit.”  
\------  
The idea comes to him at home later that night after his sixth beer or so.

He doesn’t really have the tools or know how, but he’s got a GED, a give ‘em hell attitude, a box of matches, and a knife collection up to the task.

In the end, he’s got a pretty ugly mass of wood, fabric, and Elmer’s glue, several cuts to his fingers (two of them bad), and only two hours till he has to be up for work Friday morning.

\-----

When Dean entered the shop on Friday Cas is, again, nowhere to be seen. Figuring he either had another bad customer experience or maybe just stepped out for a second, leaving the door unlocked because he knew he would be coming soon, Dean headed straight to the back.

There on the workbench is the most amazing bedroom set of doll furniture Dean has ever seen, and he’s been surrounded by the best of Cas’ work for a week. There’s a canopy bed with a quilted floral bedspread, plush carpeting, a tiny chair shaped like a throne with it’s own overstuffed ottoman, a reading nook complete with tiny books (with real printed stories inside, Dean knew without even having to look). Teeny fuzzy slippers poked out from under the dust ruffle. It was elegant, it was well made, it wasn’t pink, it had no plastic, it was perfect!

Smiling, Dean ran his fingers over every piece, recognizing little by little what Cas had worked on while he was there. Never the whole piece at once, but elements and parts, so he’d never know what it all looked like until the end.

Dean sat in what he’d come to think of as ‘his’ chair, still staring at the display. His own work seemed shoddy and coarse compared to Cas’ artistry. He thumbed the bulge the matchbox made in his pocket, thinking twice about his plan. And where was Cas?

“Cas!” he called, but nothing happened.

“Cas!” he called again, getting worried.

Getting up out of his chair, Dean walked over to the wall of boxes he had seen Cas walk out of before. There was no latch, no hinges, no way of opening it from the outside, or even telling there was a door at all unless you already knew.

“Cas? You in there?” Dean knocked at the cardboard.

“Go away,” Cas finally answered.

Cas wanted him to leave? Maybe he thought it was someone else.

“Cas…” Dean tried again, “It’s Dean.”

“I know,” Cas replied, “You should take the miniatures and go.”

Dean was equal parts confused and crushed. Cas wanted him to leave? He didn’t even want to see him?

“Cas, come out here and talk to me! Please!”

“No!” he sounded adamant. 

“Dude, I still have to pay you!” Dean tried.

“Leave the money on the workbench. Please, just go.”

Dean started feeling around the edges of where he knew the door was. There had to be a way to get inside!

“Cas, don’t do this. We’re friends, right? Whatever’s going on we can talk it out, but I need to see you, talk face to face to do that, okay?”

Cas doesn’t say anything else.

Dean’s fingers finally slide over something that feels like a latch, but he doesn’t want to breach Cas’ privacy right now. He can feel there’s something going on here, and pushing Cas might just be the worst thing to do.

“Hey, buddy, I’ve got something for you. A gift. A thank you for letting me hang out here all this time.” There’s a rustling from behind the boxes, “I’m not leaving till I give it to you personally.”

“Okay, fine, have it your way.” there’s a pop and the wall opens to reveal Cas sitting on the floor with his knees pulled up to his chin. His hair is even messier than normal, his eyes are red, and it’s clear he’s been crying.

Dean is next to him in a flash.

“What’s wrong?”

Fierce blue eyes meet Dean’s and the emotion behind them is staggering.

“You! You’re what’s wrong!” Cas shouts, gesticulating wildly, “I can’t stop thinking about you! The times you’re here with me are the best in my life! I want you near me all the time! That’s what’s wrong!” Cas hides his head in his knees and sniffles “And now you’re going to leave because you got what you came here for and you won’t need me any more.”

“Whoa,” Dean lets out a puff of air, “uh, we don’t have time to unpack all of that, but come out here and let me tell you something.”

Cas lets Dean pull him by the arm into the sunlight. He looks even worse than he did in the boxes. Dean straightens Cas’ shirt and smooths a hand through his hair. Cas chases the touch, nuzzling into Dean’s hand. Then Dean steps back and runs a hand through his own hair before pulling the matchbox out of his pocket.

“Uh,” Dean stutters. “I was looking at your boxes on the wall, and the one of this shop is missing something. I mean, if you think it belongs there, I’ve got it, and we can put it in there and it can stay as long as you want it to, okay, Cas?”

Cas glances down at the box Dean is offering him, and then back up into Dean’s eyes, confused. Dean, for his part, tries to stand steady, and not think about how adorable Cas looks.

Cas finally takes the box out of his hand, slides it open, and empties it into his palm. Out falls an imperfect replica of the chair Dean sits in every day. 

“There wasn’t even a spare chair in the miniature shop,” Dean explains, holding up his bandaged hands and grinning sheepishly, “so I had to make one. Because I think it belongs here, next to you.”

Cas huffs a laugh. Then another. Then he’s full on laughing, gummy smile and scrunched nose and all. Dean knows he’ll never feel better than he does at that moment (Dean is wrong).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!
> 
> Inspiration for the watch miniature comes from a series of photos on tumblr.
> 
> This one in particular: https://imgur.com/yhP1IpD
> 
> As with all my stories, there's always a chance I'll add to it, so comment if you want more!


End file.
